


Once a Warrior, Always a Warrior

by karategal



Series: A Hobbit in the Lonely Mountain [11]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Hobbit Culture, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 06:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karategal/pseuds/karategal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a belligerent group of dwarves step in between Thorin and his family, the King Under the Mountain can't stop himself from falling back into old habits and instinctively protecting what is his. Three years of peace can't erase a lifetime of death, tragedy, and abject poverty, even in someone as strong and resilient as Thorin Oakenshield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or actors from _The Hobbit_. Everything belongs to the great and powerful J.R.R. Tolkien.

Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain and direct descendent of Durin the Deathless himself, could barely stand to look in the mirror some mornings.

For three long years, the dwarf had been fighting an internal battle of wills, constantly having to remind himself that the war was over, the dragon was dead, and his people finally had a permanent home again. It had been so long since Thorin had just been able to just sit back and breathe and relax that he had soon realized that he didn't know how to do any of those simple pleasures anymore.

_A sword was coming down at his head, just missing by an inch and taking two braids with it..._

His whole body was a chapter book of battles and betrayals, each scar telling a small story about the Dwarf-King's life. A burn wound on his left hand from Smaug's invasion, two knife marks near his kidneys from a failed assassination attempt, numerous nicks from training sessions and battles alike, and the jagged scars that crisscrossed his right foot, stomach, shoulder, and face from that fateful battle with Azog atop Ravenhill.

Dís had once joked about him looking like a dwarven pincushion, which Thorin had simply brushed off at the time. But now? Well, it had certainly become a more apt description since the Battle of the Five Armies. And if the state of recent events could be used as a predictor, then he'd probably be adding to that collection in the near future, too.

Staying on high alert had been a priority Thorin's entire life, especially once he became King in the Blue Mountains. For the most part, his Broadbeam and Firebeard kin had been accepting and willing to open their homes to the dwarves of Erebor, sharing their own food and meager possessions in whatever way they could. However, it had been the Broadbeams who'd been most hospitable to their devastated kinsmen, which didn't surprise Thorin like it did so many years ago. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur were some of the bravest and most compassionate dwarves Thorin had ever encountered; he had no fear of their political manipulations or attempts to stab him in the back like so many of his court in Ered Luin.

To be honest, Thorin would've been perfectly content to never host another court in his kingdom. It was necessary, yes, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Few of his new council and court had fought in the Battle of the Five Armies, most of them having migrated from the Blue Mountains and Iron Hills. His Company and a sizable number of Dáin's nobles had chosen to remain in Erebor and serve the King Under the Mountain, but they were swiftly being outnumbered by the returning aristocrats and nobles from other lands.

_Dead bodies littered the ground, charred beyond recognition as his kinsmen ran for their lives..._

It had become a point of contention in recent months, especially as more and more dwarves arrived in the mountain. Dwalin had suggested throwing the whole lot of them off the ramparts, but Balin and Bilbo shot that thought down right quick. Bad for business, they'd both said. Good for security had been Dwalin's argument. That hadn't held up for long, though. Dís had been insulted by such a simple scheme and had taken matters into her own hands.

Thorin still wasn't quite sure what his sister had done, but the Royal Court had been rather... docile in recent weeks. Some of his most vocal Council members had even taken to hiding in the guild halls. It was a refreshing and welcome development, if you asked him.

_He didn't have anything left of his mother, everything was gone and so was she and it was burning and his home..._

And apparently, Bilbo agreed. He'd been all but prancing through the kitchen over the last few days, singing those silly songs that hobbits favored so much. If Thorin had seen fit to sweep the jolly creature off his feet and kiss him senseless on several occasions... well, nobody needed to know about it. Except for Frodo and Donel, who had walked in on them twice.

"Ewww, they're doing it again!" had been Donel's reaction the second time. "They're just like my parents! All smoochy-smoochy!"

"Bad uncles! No smooching before bed!"

"Not again," Bilbo had groaned from his perch atop the kitchen counter. "Didn't you lock the door? You're supposed to lock the door, Thorin!"

"It slipped my mind."

Bilbo had shook his head in disbelief and said, "Yes, I can see that, among other things."

"Your uncle's butt is really hairy."

"See! I told him that, too! He says it's an attractive trait in a dwarf. I think hairy feet are better, though."

"If you say so..."

Four days later, the dwarf remembered to close the kitchen door. And he was rewarded quite handsomely for it, too.

Thorin was happy, though. It had been five months since he'd married the fussy, sharp-tongued, and waistcoat-wearing hobbit who'd done more for Durin's Folk than anyone else in the past few millennia. Only a fool would overlook the miraculous wonder that was waking up every morning to honey curls and sarcastic plumpness. It eclipsed everything else in Thorin's life, to be truthful. The Valar and Mahâl had smiled down upon a lowly blacksmith and given him a kingdom of astounding riches, even adding in a wonderful husband to go along with it.

_His brother was dead, cut clean in half by that monster and he'd been too far away to save him and everything was loud and bright and burning..._

Not to mention that Thorin had gained another nephew through marriage, too. Tiny Frodo was an absolute delight—well, most of the time, at least—and was likely the closest thing that Thorin would ever have to a child of his own. Not that he cared about Frodo's true heritage in the slightest, of course. Waking up to two hobbits was far better than any dream the dwarf's mind had conjured up in his pre-Quest life.

And that was why Thorin didn't mind waking up early four days a week to tend to the fauntling's morning ablutions, either.

Leaning over the bed, Thorin took the time to breathe in the familiar scents of lavender soap, old parchment, and the distinctive sweetness that seemed to linger on all infants and small children. Contrary to popular belief, a dwarf's sense of smell was often comparable to their night vision, allowing them to navigate shadowy caverns, pitch-black tunnels, and inky mine shafts with an ease that even elves would be envious of. This was the main reason why Thorin could recognize each member of his family without having to see them first; just give him a good, strong whiff of the air and he'd been able to identify them without a second's thought.

_A loud crunch echoed through the snowy air, his heir's legs snapping from the fall that he'd been too weak and foolish to prevent..._

It only took a second for his nose to register the scent, images flashing through Thorin's mind like a colorful Dorwinion paper show. Frodo munching on sugar cookies. Frodo scraping his knee on the stairs. Frodo kissing his aunt on the nose. The Dwarf-King smiled, reaching out to touch one of the many curls that dotted his nephew's pillow. So unlike dwarves, his hobbits were.

"Mizimith, it's already past the seventh bell."

"No," grumbled a voice from beneath the quilts, "Wanna sleep. Go away..."

"We'll be having none of that now," said Thorin as he pulled back the covers to reveal a messy-haired and petulant faunt. "Dori will have my braids if you're late for another lesson this week. And you know how terrible his disappointed frowns can be, even on a good day."

"Uncle Dori's always frowning."

Okay, even Thorin had to admit that that was true; Dori frowned even more than the King of Frowns himself. Dwalin had earned a kick in the bollocks for popularizing that particular nickname. But that was beside the point, which the dwarf made clear by blowing raspberries into Frodo's vulnerable throat and stomach. The faunt shrieked and bit Thorin's hand in response; obviously, Dwalin had been training him well. 

"Are you going to get up now?"

"No!" 

"Then you'll have to face the consequences, little one."

He wasted no time turning Frodo into a giggling mess; the little hobbit was just as ticklish as Fíli and Kíli had been at his age. The lad's curls tended to make him sneeze, but the dwarf had learned to persevere through this unfortunate difficulty within a week of becoming Frodo's glorified cuckoo clock. It wasn't until Frodo started biting his arms that Thorin decided to let up, smirking in that smug way that all parents' adopted when their children were safe and happy and cursing their own flesh and blood. 

"All done?"

"Still don't wanna get up."

"Neither did I, but we've all responsibilities to attend to," Thorin reasoned. "Including a delegation of Blacklock nobles that I'd rather not have to meet with this afternoon. I'll be pulling my own braids out less than an hour in, I swear it."

_Green eyes stared at him in terror, small fingers gripping his fur-lined wrists with desperation..._

This information seemed to perk Frodo up a little bit, which Thorin was grateful for. He loved this little boy more than almost anything else in the world—and Bilbo was quite adamant about the boys always coming before all else, no exceptions, thank you—but Frodo was just not a morning person. Not in the slightest. In fact, he was downright miserable until the tenth bell most mornings.

"Will they be nice?" asked Frodo when he was picked up and carried to the bathroom. "I only like the nice tribes. Will there be Broadbeams? They don't care that I'm not a dwarf. And they always have sweets with them."

Thorin tried not to growl at this admission, especially since Frodo tended to be rather tight-lipped about how some dwarves treated him. Most transgressions against Frodo had been reported to them by Donel or Dwina, neither of whom were the least bit shy about defending their hobbit friend's honor. No one could insult his nephew with Donel around; that dwarfling was fiercely protective of his smaller friend and had thrown many a rock at someone who'd dared to say a bad word about Frodo's race or social status.

_No help would come for his Company, not from the mangled northmen or their traitorous allies..._

"I've never met these dwarves before, so we'll have to wait and see," said Thorin as he brushed Frodo's mess of curls. "Make sure to scrub your back teeth, too. Don't want any rot setting in, now do we?"

The faunt shook his head and scooped up another blob of the mint paste, vigorously scrubbing at his molars and incisors. Hobbits were quite fastidious about their teeth compared to most other races, so Thorin always made sure that Frodo cleaned them thoroughly each morning. Bilbo would get cranky if the boy's teeth weren't a nice, pearly white at diplomatic dinners and other public events.

It only took a few minutes for Thorin to gather up a proper set of clothes and scrub the boy's face, hands, and feet, his timing perfectly coinciding with Dori's arrival for lessons. Balin would be working with Frodo later in the afternoon; the poor dwarf had the honor of teaching Frodo geometry this season, which was always a struggle since it was the lad's least favorite subject. He had a head for it, but hobbits just weren't fans of the geometric architecture and jewelry that dwarves favored so much.

Bilbo insisted that accounting and basic algebra were a more productive use of their nephew's time. Hobbits were so damn bossy sometimes.

"Luncheon begins at the thirteenth bell, so bring him to us about a half hour early," Thorin advised Dori. He ignored the little hand that was rustling through his trouser pockets for goodies. "We should be finished with introductions by then, and he won't have to sit by himself for long."

_He couldn't find his nephews, he couldn't find them and another army was coming and he couldn't find them..._

Dori nodded and said, "I'm also working with Donel today at Thana's request, so I can bring him along, too. That way, Frodo won't be alone and without an age-mate for the whole meal."

"Two small boys at a diplomatic dinner? What could go wrong?"

With that sarcastic reply and a kiss to Frodo's forehead, Thorin retreated back into his bedchambers and to the older hobbit waiting for him. Bilbo was just as Thorin had left him, breathing deeply and with a small puddle of drool on the pillow. In the half-hour that Thorin had spent with Frodo, Bilbo had rolled over to the middle of the bed and sprawled out like a starfish. His husband was quite the active sleeper, so it wasn't unusual for Thorin to be conked on the head a time or two during the night.

"Time to wake up, âzyungel. We have a diplomatic luncheon in less than three hours."

Bilbo grumbled and swatted at his hands, threatening Thorin's dwarfhood if he didn't bugger off and leave the hobbit to his slumber. Of course, this didn't deter Thorin in the slightest, who simply crawled onto the big bed and let loose a great puff of air into Bilbo's sensitive ear, causing the hobbit to sputter and giggle like a Haradrim hyena. Bilbo made a few grabs for Thorin's braids, but the dwarf was quick to move out of the way and used the flailing as an opportunity to assail his dear husband's exposed armpits and soft belly.

_He wasn't his grandfather, he wasn't his grandfather, he would **not** become his grandfather..._

"Stop that... Thorin! Right this moment!" Bilbo was gasping and whacking at Thorin's head now. "I swear... I'll never feed you... again! By the Valar... stop that, you confounded... dwarven lunkhead!"

"Far be it for me to deny you, sanmizim."

"You're lucky... that I didn't punch you... in the nose again," Bilbo giggled, face flushed from the torture he'd just received. "Not that it even did anything... to that giant honker you call a nose."

"Big noses are attractive in dwarven society."

The hobbit shook his head and leaned up for a kiss. "And so are hairy asses and inkings and piercings and battle scars and many other ridiculous things."

"I didn't hear you complaining about those piercings last night."

_His hobbit was wounded and crying and there was nothing he could do to comfort the gentle being that he loved so much..._

An adorable blush spread across Bilbo's cheeks and neck, stammering and flailing when Thorin ground his hips against the hobbit's bare bottom. Bilbo was still more than a bit shy about the piercings that dwarven warriors favored, especially the ones in their nether-bits. He had become more adventurous since their wedding night—and hadn't that been a pleasant surprise, what with Bilbo's flailing and shrieking and nearly tearing his sapphire-studded cock-bar out—and was no longer afraid to touch the metal barbell.

"Insane dwarves," had been Bilbo's words on several occasions, "This is a hazard just waiting to happen. Can it come out?"

"Not easily, so you don't need to fret so much."

Of course, Thorin should've known better than to give such a naive placation to the intellectual sponge that was Bilbo Baggins. His husband had insisted on inspecting it the next evening, clinically examining the piercing for any weaknesses or sharp edges; Óin would've been proud of the hobbit's attention to detail, and Thorin hadn't uttered a single word of complaint. It had been one of the most pleasurable nights of his life, even if they hadn't initiated any form of penetration. Who would've known that the baby soft hands of a hobbit-y burglar could be so devious and manipulative?

Unfortunately, his fauntling has also been curious about it. Frodo's first years had been spent in the Shire, so he wasn't nearly as bold as most dwarflings, but Thorin had caught the boy glaring at his penis enough times in the bath to guess what he was confused by. That had certainly been one of the most... bizarre conversations of his life, which was really saying something.

_His brother and sister were cold and hungry and there wasn't anything he could do to comfort them or bring their mother back..._

"Why would you want a piece of metal through your little bits?" Frodo had asked. "I like mine the way they are. Mama said you shouldn't change things about yourself for other people. You should like yourself."

"And your mother was a very wise woman, mizimith."

Frodo had given him a long stare before finally saying, "I don't want one of those things. You and Uncle Dwalin can keep them."

"Well, I think your uncle will be happy to hear that," Thorin had chuckled. To be truthful, he was also relieved to hear that his quiet, studious fauntling had no desire to pursue the type of lifestyle that led to such symbolic and painful piercings. "Now, at least let me tell you the story behind them and why dwarven warriors choose to go through this rather... painful process."

"I still think it's silly."

Well, that was one hobbit's opinion and thankfully, the hobbit whose opinion mattered had grown quite fond of that piercing after the first few weeks. Thorin would've been more than happy to put that piercing to good use that very moment if his bedchamber doors hadn't flown open and his best friend hadn't decided to be a complete, fucking idiot for once in his sad, pathetic life.

_The Arkenstone was his only claim to the kingdom, he needed to find it and he needed to find it right now or else..._

"Oh bebother and confusticate—"

"If you don't walk back out that door this very second," warned Thorin, "I'm going to light your fucking ass on fire, Dwalin!"

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Your Royal Horniess." Both royals hissed and groaned when Dwalin threw open the balcony curtains and morning light streamed into the once darkened room. "My brother threatened to have my beard if you two aren't presentable by the ninth bell." 

Thorin wrapped a blanket around Bilbo and attempted to kill Dwalin with his glare alone.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, don't look at me like that. Believe it or not, the hobbit will keep if you don't bugger him every half hour." Dwalin was now digging through their wardrobe, tossing random things onto the bed without a second glance. "Now put some clothes on, I know you're both starkers under there."

A tunic whacked Bilbo in the face, causing him to release a loud sigh. "We're meeting with the Blacklocks today, aren't we?"

"About two dozen nobles, I fear." Thorin ducked a pair of trousers that came flying at his head. "Balin was harping at me the other morning about reviewing several cultural requirements beforehand. Not to mention all of the old trade records." 

"You skipped it, didn't you?"

His silence pulled an unimpressed glare from Bilbo, who caught a flying waistcoat in mid-air and then whacked Thorin over the head with it. Whoever said hobbits didn't possess a violent streak was delusional. Bilbo could be downright vicious when he was peeved enough. 

"Well, since your laziness has dragged me into this," grumbled Bilbo with no small amount of venom, "Then we'd best be getting ourselves dressed before Balin marches in and tries to do it himself." 

_Nobody could be trusted, not even his nephews, because they were all conspiring against him, just like they'd done to his grandfather..._

Before Thorin could protest, another pair of trousers hit him in the face. Snarling with annoyance and iron balls, Thorin grabbed the nearest object on their bedside table—it turned out to be a very heavy comb, thank Mahâl—and chucked it straight into Dwalin's exposed ass. The larger dwarf grunted from where he was buried in the wardrobe, releasing a loud fart and evil laugh in response. Bilbo just coughed and cursed the continued existence of the dwarven race.

"I'm definitely going to the washroom now." 

As Bilbo walked off with a blanket wrapped around him, Thorin snarled at Dwalin's smirking face and then tackled him once Bilbo had disappeared into the bathroom. Their scuffle only lasted a half-minute, but it was more than enough time for Thorin to knee his friend in the bollocks. And stuff a sock into his filthy mouth. It was a healthy relationship... from a certain point of view.

"Why do I put up with you?"

"Because I'm the only person this side of Arda who can put up with your broodiness." 

Thorin made a show of stroking his beard and whispering to himself, "Hmmmm, I wonder where our resident thief is? A certain broody dwarf has had to listen to _so_ many—"

"Don't you dare!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for some PTSD, folks. Several readers have inquired about the brief mentions I've given to Thorin having PTSD in other stories, so I decided to write a short story focused on it. I'll be basing some of Thorin's reactions on my own veteran relatives, several of whom served in WWII, Vietnam, and the Gulf. Three of them saw very heavy and traumatic combat in their experiences, including life-changing physical injuries like Agent Orange and shrapnel/bullet wounds, so out of respect to them and others with PTSD, I'll be keeping Thorin's case as realistic and individual as possible.
> 
> Also, you'll notice that my writing style in this story is quite disjointed, and that's on purpose. It's supposed to imitate the flashback phases and disassociation that many combat vets (including my great-uncle) often suffer through.


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin was having a Bad Day.

No other word properly described the disaster of feelings that practically choked him at random times. He had learned how to put up with it, to an extent, but some days were much worse than others. Thorin usually knew by mid-morning if he was going to have a Bad Day, mostly because of him having nightmares several hours earlier or coming across something that threw him back to darker times. He'd been able to identify a few of these so-called triggers, but new ones often cropped up without warning, such as the smell of burnt pork or walking through a spiderweb. It blindsided him at the worst times, too.

Like right now, only minutes before he was due to have lunch with a Blacklock delegation. Thorin didn't know exactly what was bothering him—and that was the most frustrating part of this whole thing, the not knowing or understanding—but he could feel a strange sense of foreboding looming over everything that he encountered, including the tepid air and solid stone that surrounded him.

_Something was clawing at his mind, ripping it to shreds and turning him into an unrecognizable monster..._

The presence of Frodo and Donel at his feet was a small reassurance, but Thorin still felt like something was burrowing under his skin, just waiting for an opportunity to jump on the dwarf when he was least expecting it. Thorin had heard stories about warriors and refugees having terrible reactions to certain things, some lashing out at those around them while others suffered from crippling paranoia or stopped speaking altogether. Mahâl knew that the dwarves of Erebor had had nightmares for decades after their home was taken by that damned dragon.

Nothing came easy to Durin's Folk or their allies, Thorin had learned. Suspicion was the only sensible reaction for many dwarves, especially ones like Thorin who had been turned away and outright forgotten by those who'd promised to shelter his people in times of need. The bloody tree-humping bastards had turned their backs like the cowards they are, leaving thousands of defenseless men and dwarves to be—

"Uncle Thorin!"

And just like that, the dwarf was snapped out of whatever trance he'd fallen into. Frodo was looking up at Thorin with a concerned frown, small fingers buried deep in the King's thick trousers. Not two feet away was Donel, eyes wide with a curiosity that was always troubling in such a young child. Thorin reached out and laid a gentle hand on both boys' heads, smile strained despite his best efforts.

_He needed to protect the gold, it was all his people had left and he needed to protect it at all costs..._

"I'm hungry. When are they going to start?"

"Soon, mizimith. You two need to be on your best behavior," Thorin warned. "We haven't dealt with the Blacklock clans in many years, so some of their customs may appear quite strange compared to ours."

"We'll behave, Uncle. Promise."

Donel nodded and said, "Aye, my amad already told me to keep my yap shut."

"I will have to increase her monthly earnings."

"More food then."

"For some reason," said Thorin as he worked a knot out of Donel's hair, "I have a feeling that your mother will find appropriate uses for it."

"No toys?"

"You'll have to wait and see, little one."

That comment earned Thorin a pout from the little dwarf, something that still took him by surprise. Donel had weaseled his way into the royal family's inner circle within a few short months, his mother, father, and twin sisters coming right along with him. Now they were some of Thorin's most trusted advisers, with Thana acting as the King's official translator and Farór as a mining foreman under Bofur's command. The twins could often be found in the royal playrooms, babbling over toys and trinkets that Dís and Thorin had not seen in well over a century.

_His grandmother's face was burned away, but Thorin would recognize her favorite dress anywhere and yet her face was gone and he needed to run..._

Their mother would've been delighted to see so many children running about the Royal Wing.

"Both of you have washed your hands?" asked Thorin. He reached out to examine two sets of little fingers. "You know how your uncle and Óin feel about dirt getting into your mouths."

Frodo crinkled his nose and said, "We washed them. They were covered in bug guts."

"Excuse me?"

"We found a whole bunch of giant crickets," said Donel, showing their size with a stretch of his hands. "One of 'em tried to bite me and I squished it with a hammer. Adad says they'll eat you if given the chance."

And that was actually true. The large insects that inhabited Erebor's deeper tunnels were usually harmless and avoided dwarves at all costs, but they'd become more bold since the days when Thorin had been a child. Having a bad-tempered dragon torch the majority of your food sources would push any creature to attack the next juicy morsel that stumbled into their path.

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose and released a quiet sigh. "What have I told you about playing in the unfinished tunnels?"

"We weren't playing in the tunnels."

"They were right in the hallways near Uncle Dori's quarters," said Frodo. "Maybe they came out of the holes in the ceiling? There's lots of holes in that area, I think."

Donel nodded. "I think they did."

Well, that was just one more issue to add to Thorin's endless list of maintenance problems. Hungry, dwarf-eating insects. He was sure the Council was going to love that being made a top priority. The last thing Thorin needed right now was a half-dozen miners or, Mahâl forbid, children disappearing in the main tunnels of Erebor; that would be yet another black stain on Thorin's rule as King Under the Mountain.

_He watched the battlefield and had no idea if Bilbo was down there, so small and fragile and trampled by those around him..._

"You're hovering again."

Not twenty feet away stood Bilbo, hands on his hips as he eyed an unrepentant Dwalin and Glóin. Neither dwarf had any particular trust for the Blacklocks yet, so they had been puttering within twenty foot of their hobbits since leaving the Royal Wing. Nori was guaranteed to be nearby too, probably lurking in the hidden tunnels with his minions, just waiting for someone to threaten his liege and family members. A knife would be embedded in the assassin's forehead or chest before he'd even know what hit him.

"You're paranoid, laddie."

Bilbo rolled his eyes. "No, it's you lot who are paranoid. And put that away. Goodness, what is with you dwarves and your axes!"

"Always good to be prepared."

"Prepared? You have at least half an armory strapped to your person."

Several dwarves were watching Bilbo with wide eyes, obviously surprised that the small hobbit could speak to Dwalin in such a manner and still have his kneecaps intact. The Guard Captain took Bilbo's fussing with little more than a huff and an eye roll, instinctively keeping his large frame between Bilbo and the Blacklocks that were now entering the antechamber. It was unlikely that Bilbo had noticed this particular habit of Dwalin's, but Thorin most certainly had, eyes always following his consort's form when they were out in public.

_His nephews, his sister-sons, his precious boys, were bleeding to death and they were so pale, almost bloodless..._

A great deal of Thorin's actions occurred without him ever thinking about them, whether he was in the field or not. He'd discovered that once you were trained to be observant, it was difficult to turn such a habit off. No matter where he was, Thorin always scanned his surroundings, looking for oddities, good places for cover, good vantage points. And after that, he would keep scanning anyways, always looking to see if anything had changed, mentally noting anything worth keeping track of or needing immediate attention.

As Dwalin liked to say: once a warrior, always a warrior.

"I prefer the assumption that I have a full armory upon my person," said Dwalin with a feral grin. "Similar to the assumption that hobbits always carry at least four biscuits on them at any given time."

"Now that's just—" Bilbo paused and poked at one of his many hidden pockets. "Well, alright, that's rather true, but it's not the same situation at all."

"You have more than four, don't you?"

Bilbo sniffed and said, "Eight, if you must know. A pair for each of the boys. Not that it's any of your business."

Another toothy grin was Dwalin's response, sharp words of Khuzdul calling Frodo and Donel to his side while an unarmed hand reached out to guide Bilbo away from the incoming Blacklocks. He met Thorin's gaze and tilted his head in a barely perceptible nod, silently reassuring his King and closest friend that Bilbo and the children were safe with him.

"Well, see if I make you a batch of pumpkin cupcakes this weekend. Bofur will be more than happy to eat them instead."

"Hobbits are cruel creatures."

_Blue eyes were staring at him, lifeless and cold and so unlike his littlest nephew, cut down by the White Orc who was supposed to be dead..._

And Thorin knew that there was no safer place for them than at Dwalin's side. The large dwarf loved Thorin's nephews like they were his own and had become fiercely protective of Bilbo since the Battle of the Five Armies. Thorin still wasn't entirely sure what transpired during their separation atop Ravenhill, but Dwalin had developed a vicious streak when it came to protecting the Company's burglar, and several dwarves had faced retribution in the camps for harassing and tormenting Bilbo because of the Arkenstone incident.

"Time to put those diplomacy lessons to work, eh, laddie?"

Balin had appeared at his side not a moment later, the familiar grumbling of Fíli and Kíli only a few steps behind him. While Bilbo was taking Frodo and Donel off to the side until lunch was formally served, the mountain's heirs were required to stay with their uncle throughout the whole proceedings. Originally, Dáin and his young son had planned on attending too, but an unexplained incident with the Iron Hills guilds had waylaid him for at least another week. Thorin suspected that explosions and catapults and burnt beards had been involved, if Nori's rumor-reports were to be believed.

He sincerely hoped that Dori had Erebor's guilds under lock and key until things simmered down in the Iron Hills. The persnickety dwarf had nipped an inter-guild war in the bud just last month, braids immaculate and cup of tea still warm as he surveyed the guild halls during his weekly reports to Thorin. Apparently, over half of the guild members were either terrified of Dori, or wanted to propose to him.

All of this had been met with an eye roll of derision from Erebor's Guildmaster.

Kíli wrinkled his nose and said, "Diplomacy skills? What diplomacy skills? The only ones with those around here are you and Bilbo."

"Maybe Amad. And that depends on the situation."

_Over one hundred years later, the mummified bodies of his people still littered the ground, faces frozen in abject terror and desperation..._

"Well, then you lads are just going to have to work on them," said Balin. He grabbed both by the sleeves and dragged them to Thorin's side. "Now here come several of our guests, so stay your tongues and act like the rightful heirs you're supposed to be, understood?"

The Dwarf-King had almost forgotten how frightening Balin could be when he put his mind to it.

It was about one hour into the luncheon when Thorin felt that familiar, overbearing need to observe everyone and everything around him. Before reclaiming Erebor, just having Dwalin beside him would be enough to reassure Thorin to his and his family's safety, but that was no longer the case in recent months. His fingers and knees twitched with the need to stand up and survey his surroundings, the steady weight of Orcrist and a half dozen knives still not enough to settle the ominous thoughts that plagued Thorin's mind.

"We would need to establish trade with the southern Stonefoots, Your Majesty. They produce some of the finest masonry work this side of the..."

Thorin felt a knot form deep in his stomach, eyes darting around to stare at the twelve Blacklocks that dotted the table. Images raced through his mind, each of them more terrible and paranoid than the last. Bilbo being stabbed by the dark-haired lady across from him. Frodo and Donel being snatched from under his nose, faces red and tear-streaked as they were stolen from their families. Dwalin being struck down by an axe to the back of his head. Fíli and Kíli tackled to the ground, the former's still-healing left leg giving out before he could defend himself.

And then he looked at Balin, whose presence had always made Thorin's heart calm, instinctively knowing that the older dwarf would protect and guide him through any and all of life's challenges. But now, all he saw was blood against white, black and hopeless and discoloring the snow-like beard that Thorin was so fond of. It was like a waking nightmare that he couldn't escape.

"I think now would be a good time to adjourn," said Bilbo not a moment later. "I'm sure you are tired from making such a long journey and negotiations can continue tomorrow where we've left off."

_His nephew's bandages were soaked in red and the healers didn't think they'd be able to save his arm, let alone his life..._

Most of the Blacklocks spoke in agreement, two specifically requesting to be taken to the communal hot springs before retiring for the evening. Only one did not appear content with this arrangement, dark eyes watching Bilbo and his nephew with the open disdain that so many still held towards those not of the dwarven race. It made the hairs on Thorin's neck stand on end, fingers twitching up his left sleeve to grasp at the knife hidden there.

"We've restored the private baths," Bilbo continued, "And several large crates of oils arrived from Dorwinion last week, so you'll find that they're all well stocked. I have only heard good things about their restoration from our people, which I can assure you was not the case just last month."

"I think the oils smell funny."

As expected, the Blacklock ladies attending the luncheon were quite taken with Frodo and Donel, their stoic faces relaxing whenever the children spoke to them or did something particularly childlike and innocent. Considering the sorry state of dwarven reproduction, their enthusiastic reactions were anything but a surprise and Balin looked more than a little pleased with how well his seating arrangements had turned out.

_The traitors had taken his child, snatched him right out from under Thorin's nose and disappeared into the deepest mines..._

"Well, that's because you're not a fan of baths to begin with, Donel."

"Dirt's good for a dwarf."

Bilbo raised an eyebrow and said, "Not in the amounts you tend to carry on your person."

"My daughter was exactly the same way at his age, I can assure you," said the older Blacklock lady. "She insisted that being covered in at least two layers of dirt and grime was the healthiest state a dwarf could live in. Took over an hour to scrub her clean, I swear."

"This one's a little more fastidious," Bilbo assured, hand resting on Frodo's curly head. "And I'm sure his mother would agree with me."

A snort was Bilbo's reply from Thana. "And the twins appear to be taking after their brother, I fear. The three of them create small whirlwinds of filth whenever they run through our home."

_The White Orc was standing over his grandfather, serrated smile open and wide as his blade came down to sever the Dwarf-King's head..._

The oldest Blacklock noble pitched in a few complaints about his youngest grandson, claiming that the child was not only filthy but also a walking fire hazard. It made Thorin reconsider his stance on Fíli and Kíli being the worst terrors this side of the Misty Mountains. From the sounds of it, they had been model citizens who'd never once attempted to set their mother's wardrobe on fire.

Or a visiting ambassador from the Yellow Mountains.

And then Thorin saw the disdainful dwarf move towards his family, dark eyes trained on Frodo in a way that set Thorin's teeth on edge. It only took a moment for his head and stomach to start churning, the need to eliminate a potential threat taking over his mind like the gold madness had before it. Everything seemed to blur and twist and merge together, dark eyes turning yellow and skin bleaching white, left hand morphing into a long, curved blade as the Blacklock approached Thorin's family from behind.

_The blade was coming straight down on Bilbo, fast and swift and sharp and he wouldn't be able to reach his hobbit in time..._

The world seemed to fall away after that, Thorin's fingers curling over the blade that he'd been obsessing over all afternoon, attention focused on the white monster who dared to stalk his loved ones. Durin's Line had been hunted for too long and Thorin needed to end it, his mind said. Fíli and Kíli had nearly been sliced to pieces by these monsters and he needed to protect his boys, he couldn't let them face death again. No one, traitor, orc, or elf, would ever touch his—

"We've a situation, Your Majesty."

Nori's familiar voice pierced through the fog in Thorin's mind, drawing the King's attention away from his target and over to his Spymaster. The other dwarf had appeared at his side seemingly out of nowhere, face set into the mask he always wore while on duty. It was Nori's Mean Face, as Frodo liked to call it.

"Everything's under control, Your Highness, but I'd still list the situation as urgent."

He trusted Nori, was the first thought that came to Thorin's foggy mind. If there was a threat in the room, Nori would eliminate it with a knife to the forehead. The thief loved Bilbo and Frodo, had even admitted to it on a rare occasion when mixed berry scones had been involved, shocking Dwalin and Dori in equal parts. A lot of questionable deeds occurred at Nori's hands, but he'd _never_ endanger the Company or their families.

If there was a threat in the dining hall, Nori would've already killed it.

"Speak."

With a furtive glance, Nori signaled for the King to follow him. Once they were away from the crowds and halfway down a nearby corridor, the Spymaster turned and regarded Thorin with a knowing frown. As usual, little could be hidden from Nori's ever-watching eyes.

"Thought you needed a bit of saving back there, Your Broodiness."

"How did you come to that conclusion?"

"Don't play stupid with me, Thorin. It doesn't suit you." Nori whipped out his favorite knife, whittling at a piece of wood that he'd probably pocketed from Bofur at some point. "I know that look you've got in your eyes. Seen it hundreds of times over the years, mostly from soldiers, but poverty and losing your home will do it, too."

Thorin didn't say anything.

"Nothing to be ashamed of. All of us have a little of it, I think. You don't journey across Arda and get maimed at every turn without it fucking up your brain a good bit. Battle shock, I've heard it called. There's lots of names for it, but I prefer that one."

"You're assuming a lot on little evidence."

"Oh, I have plenty of evidence," said the thief. "It's impossible to miss something that you see in the mirror every morning."

Thorin didn't know how to respond to that.

"Talk to Dwalin," were Nori's final words. "He'll be able to help you, or at least lend a half-eaten ear."

"I'm surprised you'd say that."

"Aye, never thought I'd be talking to that big brute voluntarily, either." Nori's smile was an odd mix of amused and somber. "But he's not as stupid or slow-witted as he looks. Or as people assume."

"Most people are fools."

Nori nodded and said, "Truer than you'd believe. Still, speak with him. It'll help, trust me."

The King remained silent, but gave a small nod.

"And don't worry about your hobbit or the boys," said Nori as he opened a hidden door. "I signaled for Dwalin to return them to the Royal Wing post haste. Bilbo looked to be in a baking mood today, what with staring at those pies all through lunch like a ravenous warg. Kinda creepy, if you ask me."

"Nori..."

The King's exasperated sigh was met with a shit-eating smirk from Nori, who promised to stalk plenty of dissidents tonight. Apparently, some dwarf in the seediest of Erebor's taverns was getting too big for his britches and Nori planned to harass him for the shits and giggles. Nothing serious, but just enough to make him wear his brown pants for a couple weeks.

"I should've never hired him," lamented Thorin. "Nothing but trouble, I swear. "

However, much to Thorin's relief, the crushing fog and violent images were now gone from his mind. He could actually breathe again, and maybe Nori's advice wasn't as misplaced as he'd thought.

"I need a drink."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! Well, kinda, this semester's been a Bitch with a capital B. I've had absolutely no free time for months, thanks to all my lovely med classes. So much fun. And yep, Thorin's got some serious shell-shock going on here, flashbacks and all. Sorry to leave you guys hanging for so long!


	3. Chapter 3

It was six hours later when Thorin finally emerged from his husband's gardens, an equally filthy and bloody Dwalin right behind him. When the King had returned to his chambers shortly before supper, a large plate of pumpkin cupcakes and two bowls of raspberry chocolate mousse had been waiting on the kitchen table, a simple note laying beside them. It said that Frodo would be spending the evening with his aunt and cousins, Donel had returned home with his mother for the night, and Bilbo was attempting to teach Bofur and Bifur how to bake cinnamon cookies in the royal kitchens. All royal affairs had also been taken care of for the day, the note said, smooth cursive ending with a little leaf that was Bilbo's trademark signature.

Even when feeling like orc-shit, the familiar mark still brought a smile to Thorin's face. Bilbo signed anything he wrote with doodles that reflected which day of the week it was: a sun for Sunday, moon for Monday, trees for Trewsday, acorns for Hevensday, fish for Mersday, leaves for Highday, and stars for Sterday. Personal notes or letters to Thorin sometimes had little anvils on them.

He loved those little anvils.

"I think I have some prickers in my hand and bum," grumbled Dwalin when they entered the kitchen. "Damned things might be in my knees, too. Bushes like that aren't meant to be around civilized folks."

"It's a good thing you're not civilized then," was Thorin's response. "And those are rose bushes. Very romantic, in hobbit culture."

"Well, they're in the shape of my arse now, aren't they?"

Thorin washed his hands and took a seat at the kitchen table, more than prepared to eat both big bowls of chilled mousse that Bilbo had left for him. Stuffing an entire spoonful of chocolate into his mouth didn't stop him from bursting Dwalin's bubble, though.

"You do realize that you're gonna be on probation for weeks now, right?"

The larger dwarf gave him a toothy smile and said, "Not like I'll be alone. Your hairy arse'll be joining me."

"Don't you fucking dare," Thorin snarled. "I will throw you from the parapets myself if you—"

"Cause you're the one who threw me into them. I honestly don't see the appeal of 'em, being all prickly and such, but I'm sure you'll be cursing em' and suffering with me, Your Royal Gruffness."

"Why am I friends with you again?"

They'd been doing this for the last few hours, trading barbs and heartfelt confessions and punches, looking for all the world like a pair of emotionally stunted fools of the psychotic variety. But if Thorin had wanted gentle words and assurances, he would've gone to Bilbo, who would no doubt be awake and waiting for him come the bedtime hour. For now though, Dwalin's blunt and no-nonsense approach was exactly what Thorin needed, especially since he still felt like a dirty coward and a fraud for everything he'd done to Bilbo in the past.

How could he confide in Bilbo about trauma when he'd committed so much violence against the hobbit himself?

"Cause nobody else is willing to put up with your brooding bullshit," said Dwalin. He shoved two cupcakes into his mouth at once. "By Mahâl, I'm gonna miss these delicious lil' cup-gasms for the foreseeable future."

"Your own damned fault." Thorin was almost finished with his first bowl, which was real tragedy. "Shouldn't have fought me on that last throw. You'd have landed in the sweetgrass otherwise."

"I don't understand why he even grows those stringy weeds. Hobbits must be half-goat, eating _grass_ of all things."

A comfortable silence fell over them after that, both dwarves enjoying their favorite desserts with tall glasses of goat's milk before moving on to the small jug of mead that Bofur kept in a back cabinet. Thorin didn't even remember half of their earlier conversations, but there was less weight on his shoulders compared to the last few days, or so it seemed. It had been far too long since he and Dwalin had spent some time together, just the two of them and no worries about offending sensitive ears of the leafy persuasion. He'd almost forgotten how perceptive his best friend could be, Dwalin's gruff demeanor belying a warm heart and sharp mind that was always in tune with those around him.

"Take this."

Something hard and round landed in Thorin's palm, still warm from being tucked in Dwalin's breast pocket. Flipping it over to get a better look, Thorin was surprised to see that it was a pewter locket much like Glóin's, the Crest of Durin engraved on both sides.

"What's this?"

Dwalin rolled his eyes and said, "Why don't you open it and see then?"

"Shrub-humper."

Despite the rude words, Thorin was exceedingly gentle when he opened the locket, all too aware that this was a gift of the most thoughtful kind. And he wasn't wrong in his assumption either, because inside were two graphite portraits, one of Bilbo on the right and Frodo on the left. The latter hobbit had a wide, gap-toothed smile on his face, Ori's careful hand capturing the happiness and excitement that so often graced Frodo's little form. Bilbo, on the other hand, was as beautiful as ever, lips just barely curved up in that knowing grin of his.

It was one of the greatest gifts he'd ever received.

"Oi! You've only looked at one part of it," said Dwalin, reaching over to poke at a tiny switch along the edge. "Aye, there we go. Now flip the lad's picture over and take a look at the others."

"What do you..."

Thorin trailed off at the sight of his sister's and nephews' faces, their portraits set into the other side of the locket with similar craftsmanship. Dís was regal and solemn in her picture, the perfect dwarven princess in every way. In contrast, Fíli and Kíli were huddled together, arms slung around one another as they laughed at something outside of frame. For a moment, Thorin wondered where his little dwarflings had gone, faces now lined with fur and shoulders broad with strength, only a few decades away from claiming their birthrights to Erebor's highest crowns.

"When you feel anything coming on," said Dwalin, "Look at Frodo. The lad didn't come around until two years after we reclaimed the mountain. How could you be in the past when your faunt's only in the future?"

"That is surprisingly insightful of you. I'm impressed."

Dwalin shrugged and said, "Figured a few pictures might help when you're away from them. Concrete proof that you've a kingdom and family all safe and secure now."

"For the most part, at least."

"Don't start with that bullshit, you elf-fucker." The larger dwarf reached over to thump him on the shoulder. "I'll lose my own head and beard before anything happens to those five rapscallions."

"My sister will have your tongue if she hears you say that."

"Idle threats."

Thorin flipped between the two sets of pictures, heart stuttering at the sight of those he loved most in the world. He had felt envy for Glóin's locket at times, wishing for a visible reminder of his sister and nephews when the weather turned cold, roads impassable, and forgery sales nonexistent. Everything he did in life was for his family and his people, a fact that still hadn't changed even several years after the Lonely Mountain's reclamation.

"I don't want them to see me like this."

"And you don't think any of them have experienced similar issues?" said Dwalin, leaning forward to better look at his King. "All of us have been through hell, including your husband and nephews. Dís lost the same loved ones as you, except you still have a mate to show for it."

"Sometimes I wonder if she resents me," Thorin admitted, "For having Bilbo while she lost Víli not even two years after Kíli's birth."

The large dwarf snorted and said, "You're just speaking nonsense now. Dís has been praying to Mahâl for your happiness since I can even remember, and I've a pretty long memory, I'll have you know. She gets along with Bilbo better than she does you nowadays."

"I see things, Dwalin," said Thorin. "Terrible things. It's almost like I'm reliving everything, except with different endings."

"Aye, can't say I haven't experienced the same things myself."

"Some days, it feels like that damned dragon and orc are still dogging at my heels, ruining whatever joys I've managed to cobble together." Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose and released a weary sigh. "It's exhausting."

"There's no easy answer to this, Thorin. You know that. Battle shock is a monster unto itself."

"Pity that I can't just stab it to death and be done with it."

Dwalin snorted again at that. "And you accuse me of using violence to solve all my problems. I should demand an apology for such hypocritical accusations."

"And I should demand that you be tossed into the deepest mines for—"

Loud creaks from the antechamber's front door stole their attention, Fíli's golden figure appearing out of the shadows with a blanket-covered Frodo tucked under his left arm. The sleepy faunt was jabbering up at his older cousin, a wide yawn interrupting him halfway through an explanation on something involving carrots and that awful Lobelia shrew. Maybe another hobbit had shoved them up her shrill, brown-nosing arse?

"Say goodnight to Uncle, akhûnith."

Frodo blinked drowsy eyes at him and said, "Are you feeling better, Uncle Thorin?"

"A little better," said the King. He made sure to smile for the little boy's sake, knowing all too well that Frodo was sensitive to his family's moods. "But you know what would make me feel even better?"

"What?"

"A hug and kiss goodnight."

The fauntling didn't need to be told twice, leaning forward to crawl into Thorin's lap and waiting arms. Frodo gave the Dwarf-King a big kiss and then wrapped himself around his neck, so trusting and loving that Thorin needed to catch his breath for a moment. Fíli had obviously given him a bath since Frodo's hair smelled like the red fruits that Bilbo favored so much, creating a soothing aroma that mixed perfectly with the boy's natural baby scent. There was also a touch of cinnamon as well, which likely came from a combination of Bilbo's cooking and personal soaps.

"Ahhh, there we go," said Thorin, "I feel better already."

If he held onto Frodo a little longer than usual, well, nobody could blame him. The child was a gift that the Company had sorely needed after so many years of war and bloodshed, almost serving as a welcome to Erebor's future and the other children that would follow him. With Gimli rapidly nearing his age of majority, it was refreshing to have a little one running around again.

"Will you put me to bed?"

"Of course I will, you silly little hobbit. But I think it'd be best if I bathed first." Thorin took a dramatic sniff of an armpit and wrinkled his nose. "I smell worse than Bofur or Dwalin after a tussle in the taverns."

"That's very stinky."

"I'm sitting right here, I'll have you know," snarled Dwalin. "Terrible blow to my feelings, laddie."

"Do you want a kiss, too?"

After receiving a smooch on the nose, Thorin and Dwalin disappeared into the bathing chamber, Fíli promising to tell Frodo a grand tale about the ancient Blacklock city of Naragbarûz, located deep in the Yellow Mountains and called Blackflame by men of the Utter South. Frodo, of course, was thrilled at the prospect of a new story, tiny hands clapping with excitement.

"Maybe he'll fall asleep halfway through," said Fíli with a shrug. "Wishful thinking, I know, but one can only dream."

Most of their bath was spent commiserating over various issues throughout the mountain, Dwalin lamenting the greenness of his newest recruits. Apparently, a great deal of former Ereborian nobles had neglected to properly train their offspring for combat, something that irked Thorin to no end. While the majority of Erebor's people who survived Smaug's attack had been rendered homeless and lived in abject poverty, some of the mountain's nobles had settled in the Iron Hills with their remaining wealth, ignoring the plight of their countrymen and very own royal family.

It made Thorin's blood boil just thinking about it.

As usual, Fíli tended to his cousin without the slightest difficulty, which could largely be chalked up to Frodo being such a well-behaved and agreeable child. Thorin had to stifle a laugh when he walked into the faunt's bedroom and saw Fíli imitating a dying sand drake, complete with melodramatic flails and high-pitched shrieks. It was one of the most... lively renditions he'd ever seen of Fulla Longaxe's epic journey into the Haradwaith, that was for certain.

"I didn't realize bedtime stories were supposed to be so energetic."

Fíli waved him off and said, "But those are the best ones! I mean, why else would anyone want Bofur to tell our tale if not for his excitable renditions?"

"He exaggerates at least half of it. Especially the part about the trolls."

"Semantics."

The King walked over and shooed deerhounds off the bed, reaching out to straighten the duvet and tuck Rupert under the blankets with Frodo. These actions earned him a pout, blue eyes purposely taking on a watery look to persuade Thorin into prolonging story time.

"But he was just getting to the good part, Uncle."

"And the good part will keep until tomorrow night," said Thorin. He leaned over to blow out all but one bedside candle. "It's past the twenty-first bell and time for all good little hobbits to be abed and asleep."

"What if I don't wanna be a good lil' hobbit?"

"Then I'm afraid I'll have to request some additional etiquette lessons with Dori in your daily schedule," warned the King. "I'm certain Dori would be more than—"

"No! I'll go to sleep right now! I promise."

Fíli didn't even attempt to hide his chuckles when Thorin winked at him. They all cared for Dori and wouldn't think about changing him, but sometimes the persnickety dwarf was just a little too overbearing for his own good. Ori and Frodo were his most common targets for mother-henning, so Thorin wasn't surprised to see his tiny nephew burying into the pillows to avoid Dori's dreaded etiquette lessons.

"Wow, Nori was right," said Fíli, "That does work."

As his oldest nephew headed out to join Dwalin in the kitchens, Thorin went about banking the fireplace, blowing out any remaining candles, and locking the terrace doors, leaving the curtains partially open so Frodo had some moonlight to keep the darkness away. The boy wasn't so much afraid of the dark as he was disturbed by the total lack of light in the mornings.

Hobbits were surface-dwelling creatures, as Thorin frequently had to remind himself. They needed an abundant amount of light in order to survive.

"Are you feeling better, Uncle?"

The Dwarf-King sat on his nephew's bed and said, "Why would you ask that, mizimith?"

"You looked like you weren't feeling good at lunch," said the faunt. He tried to hold back a yawn, but it broke through anyways. "Fíli says you only look like that when you're having a Bad Day. Did you get a check up from Óin?"

"It would seem that your cousin is more perceptive than he lets on." Thorin reached out to ruffle Frodo's unruly curls. "And you're right, I wasn't feeling well earlier at lunch, but I took some medicine and feel a lot better now."

"Did it taste really icky?"

"Well, since it wasn't one of Óin's potions, I can thankfully say no to that. But Dwalin was the one who gave it to me, so it's icky by default then."

Frodo's eyes widened with concern. "You let Uncle Dwalin treat you? That's dangerous!"

"There are many different types of medication, akhûnith. Óin deals with those that treat your physical body," The dwarf poked at Frodo's tummy to prove his point, "But some others are here in the mind. Those are the trickiest to banish, I'm afraid."

"Uncle _Dwalin_ can treat the mind?"

To say that Frodo looked dubious was an understatement. The fauntling idolized Dwalin in many ways, but his Guard Captain wasn't exactly known for being a scholar or medic of any type. Dwalin was perpetually being told off by Óin for treating his own wounds with reckless, near-suicidal methods, something Balin lamented about on a regular basis.

"I wouldn't call it treatment," chuckled Thorin. "More like talking and beating it out, I'd say. Sometimes, talking can do a dwarf good, even if we drag our anvils about it. Your uncle's always lecturing me about being too stubborn to talk about anything."

"Does it help because Uncle Dwalin's your best friend?"

"Aye, that's likely."

"I used to talk to my cousin Merry a lot," said Frodo. "And then Sam after I moved into Bag End for a couple weeks. They were good listeners. It made me feel a bit better, even if it didn't bring Mama and Papa back. Donel helps sometimes, too."

Thorin leaned down to kiss Frodo's forehead and said, "I'm glad you've had such good friends, mizimith. Now stop worrying about grown up things and go to sleep. We don't want your uncle coming in to find you awake at this hour, do we?"

"Uh uh."

"Then go to sleep. Do you want the hounds in bed with you tonight?"

"Uh huh."

As he exited the room, Thorin whistled for Beryl and Jasper to join the faunt in slumber. The deerhounds were the best protection Thorin could offer his nephew, both of the physical and mental variety. It always made him sleep more soundly, too.

"I hope you didn't injure my garden too much," said Bilbo when he entered the kitchen. "Dwalin was looking at his empty plate of cupcakes with a frightening degree of longing, so I'm going to assume the answer is no."

"The rose bushes did more injury to us than we did to them."

"I'll be the judge of that."

Bilbo puttered around the kitchen, muttering to himself about demanding dwarves and their filthy habits. From the sounds of it, Bofur had still been covered in mine dust and soot when they'd met, so Thorin was at least relieved that he hadn't been the cause of his husband's fussy ire. The foreman had a tendency to return from work without washing first, something that Bombur and Bilbo often scolded him for.

"Dwalin and Fíli are still in the living room," said Bilbo. He leaned back into Thorin's chest when the dwarf came up behind him. "They were going to attempt a game of chess, but I put a stop to that right quick."

"A wise decision."

"I assume you're feeling a bit more like yourself." Bilbo leaned back to kiss the dwarf's cheek. "At the expense of my roses, of course, but I suppose such a thing was to be expected with Dwalin's involvement."

Thorin took Bilbo's free hand and kissed it. "We'll have to wait and see, I think. I've scheduled weekly sparring sessions with him."

"Good. Those have always been helpful with your moods."

"Oi!"

"Well, you can't blame me for stating the truth. If anyone can handle your brooding moods, it's Dwalin. He knocks you right out of them half the time. I'd ask him to teach me his tricks, but I much prefer not maiming people for life."

"How kind of you."

"But truly, did it help at all?"

"I wasn't kidding when I said we'll have to wait and see." Thorin buried his nose in Bilbo's hair, enjoying the sweet scent that always lingered on it. "I feel a little bit... lighter, but that could be solely from the sparring."

Bilbo hummed at that. "We'll find something, if this doesn't work."

"Mahâl willing."

"Oh, he'd better be willing," said Bilbo. "His wife is my maker, so I'll gladly box him upside the ears if he doesn't lessen your burden."

With a small smile, Thorin fingered the locket that now rested against his breastbone. Between Frodo's milk bracelet and the locket, he hoped that further nightmares would be staved off, perhaps even disappearing altogether. It was a lofty wish, for certain, but the King was feeling mildly optimistic at the moment.

"If that's an oath, then I feel better already."

The hobbit snorted and shoved a plate into his hand. "Take these to that crazed friend and nephew of yours. Crackers and cheese that I sorted through earlier this evening. Maybe they'll spare my chess set if there's food to distract them."

"Of course, my—"

He was interrupted by a quick kiss, Bilbo rubbing their noses together before turning back to the oven. How he expected Thorin to walk off after a kiss like that was beyond the dwarf's ability to understand, but the sound of Dwalin's evil cackle was enough to draw away his attention in short order. If Fíli had gotten into another arm-wrestling contest with him, there'd be hell to pay.

"Do hurry along. And if Dwalin's broken anything, please smack him for me."

"Gladly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is only meant to be a brief look into Thorin's and the Company's issues with PTSD. There's no single treatment or cure-all for it, and some of my great-uncles still have episodes 75+ years after the fact. Every person's experience is a little bit different, which I tried to highlight through Thorin's and Dwalin's friendship. But another story down; I hope you guys enjoyed it!


End file.
